


Every Love Story

by Cyndi



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Acceptance, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Autism, Autism Acceptance, Body Horror, Character Death, Deathfic, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Neurodiversity, This will run you through a gamut of emotions, actuallyautistic, autistic 12th Doctor, autistic Twelfth Doctor, autistic!12th Doctor, autistic!Twelfth Doctor, terminal illness, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 09:39:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5535101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyndi/pseuds/Cyndi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every love story ever written is about them, and this is why. (Whouffaldi, autistic!12th Doctor)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Love Story

**Author's Note:**

> Here is my acknowledgement of Face the Raven, Heaven Sent and Hell Bent. It probably counts as an AU because there’s no way the show canon will ever do this. Writing it hurt my heart so much, yet it gave me peace too. I’m not finished telling autistic!12 stories yet. This idea wouldn’t leave me alone and I wrote it to put my heart to rest on what becomes of Clara and the Doctor.
> 
> This fic is a bit of an oddball because it still features autistic!12, but we’re with Clara this time. That’s why I’m not listing it with my Whouffaldi Forever series. 
> 
> And as my warning states, there’s graphic scenery involving the end stages of a terminal illness. There are beautiful moments, but the illness itself is hideous and I don’t shy away from showing it.

_“If the sky opened up for me,_  
_and the mountain disappeared,_  
_If the seas ran dry, turned to dust_  
_and the sun refused to rise..._  
_I would still find my way,_  
_by the light I see in your eyes._  
_The world I know fades away,_  
_but you stay.”_

\--Coco Lee, _[A Love Before Time](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=urZVOFH04II)_  

.o

Her brown eyes focus straight ahead, reflecting the raven in flight. She stares it down. Nothing else in her life will require as much bravery as this.

Every story has a finite number of chapters, and this is the final page of hers. 

Clara Oswald doesn’t know what will happen after the next page turn, yet she opens her arms and _trusts_.

.o

.o

Me looked solemn as she hung up the phone behind the diner counter. She double-checked something she wrote on a yellow notepad. Clara watched her glance out the glass doors. They’d landed on an uninhabited ocean planet that had stormy gray skies and many cliffs. No customers here, but that was fine with both of them.

At last, Me picked up her mug of hot tea and took a slow sip.

“Who was that?” asked Clara.

“The Doctor,” Me answered frankly.

Clara inhaled and exhaled. She’d left the “diner’s” number in his velvet coat pocket when she retrieved his TARDIS, but never expected him to actually call it. Especially since so much time had passed.

Clara allowed herself another deep sigh. A thousand years of time travel with her body in a perpetual loop let her lose the habit of breathing unless she needed to talk, cry or express herself in some other way. She didn’t have to eat, drink, use the bathroom or sleep-- she could do all of those if she wanted to, but they weren’t vital. Her favorite perks were not having periods, not needing haircuts and her legs stayed permanently shaved.

...A thousand years of adventure and Me’s friendship, and _he_ ran through her mind every day. Unlike Me, whose “current” memories lasted approximately one hundred and thirty years, she remembered everything of the past ten centuries. She could collect memories forever. 

 _Wednesday kisses_ , Clara thought. Her mind went to those when she missed the Doctor. Wednesday kisses-- he named them that-- were an essential component of his routine for being in her presence. He and Clara always exchanged this special smooch at some point during their times together, but they tended to happen shortly before he left until the next week. He never actually cared _when_ they shared it, just so long that they _did_. Going without left him grumpy. As he put it, ‘like the universe is off kilter.’

Clara rarely thought of the Doctor’s unique needs as as a disability. His penchant for routine, his sensory issues, his stimming and his difficulties with social cues became  _that’s what makes him the Doctor_  in her mind. He was autistic-- an Apple operating system in a Windows universe. Learning what worked to help him compensate for his compatibility issues rather than fight against them was a lot of fun. 

She cleared her throat. “Why did he call? Did his TARDIS get towed?”

The seriousness was obvious when Me’s expression remained grim. Her dark eyes narrowed. Not one to sugar coat anything, she said, “He’s dying for real this time.”

Clara gripped the counter. Its corner dug into the heel of her palm. She purposely avoided the Doctor all that time. Knowing he didn’t remember her the way she remembered him hurt too much. Their love stood frozen in time, but she was the only one who felt the chill.

Me looked away, giving Clara privacy to collect herself. “He gave me his Epsilon coordinates.”

“D-Did he say how long he has?”

The tea mug plunked on the counter. 

“Days.”

 _Days_.

Clara willed the lump in her throat away and marched into the console room. She took out the neural block device from its home under the navigation panel. A flick of her thumb switched it into restore mode. Her eyes watered, blurring it against her palm. If this really was the end for him, he deserved to spend that time recognizing her.

“Clara?”

“What?”

“You won’t need that.” Me pointed to the neural blocker, half-smiling, “He remembered you as soon as he saw your face that day, but he pretended not to for your sake. He said his silly autistic brain is too good at connecting certain dots.”

Clara would’ve forgot how to breathe if she hadn’t already. The Doctor faked his amnesia to make her leave him so they wouldn’t tear the universe apart. She didn’t know whether to rejoice that he still knew her or mourn the lost possibilities.

“When did he tell you?”

“Just now on the phone.”

The neural blocker clicked when Clara put it away again. Her palm seemed naked without the cold metal in it. She felt some relief that Me didn’t know the truth all this time. Secrets like that were painful to keep.

“A word of advice?” Me stopped leaning on the doorway. "Go see him. He’s too sick to come see you.”

The urgency seemed ridiculous when they stood inside an alien time machine-slash-spaceship. Clara felt it anyway like a brick in her stomach. Very unsettling without a pounding heartbeat. No getting used to that.

“I nursed him through a Zygon flu, once.” She smirked because falling apart now wasn’t an option. “What are the coordinates?”

Me handed her the scrap of paper. Clara entered the coordinates. They led to Gallifrey, exactly one century after her and the Doctor stole the TARDIS she currently stood in.

Part of her longed to delete them and keep running. She could go to that moment any time she wanted.

But he was dying. He asked for _her_.

Clara recalled a secret pact she made with herself as soon as she realized she had wiggle room for more adventures. She swore to face her raven after the Doctor faced his. Her job as the Impossible Girl was keeping him safe, even when it meant staying away. 

Time Lords weren’t wholly immortal-- they died eventually, after ridiculously long lives. The Doctor’s time had come. Clara wanted to know his story had ended before concluding hers.

She never expected to be there for his ending.

Her mind made up, she looked into Me’s eyes and pulled the locking mechanism.

.o

Wearing a bright blue waitress uniform on Gallifrey just wouldn’t do. Clara changed into the filmy blue sweater she wore on the trap street so long ago. Yet another reminder to herself of her pact.

She straightened her sweater’s collar. “Are you staying?”

Me flinched and dropped her gaze. “No. This is between you and him. No need to complicate it, right?”

Sighing, Clara undid her ponytail and shook her loose hair.

“Me?”

The Norse woman looked over. Time to drop the bomb.

Clara reached out and took her hand, “I’m going back to face the raven after this. I told myself that. My whole life has been about keeping him safe. You’re going to be alone, and--”

“I'll manage.” Emotion flickered across Me’s expression. There and gone like the moon between clouds. “I almost forgot how grief feels. It’ll be refreshing.”

Me tried to lighten the mood with her typical deadpan humor. It worked. Sort of. She wasn’t a clingy person. Sometimes she came off downright cold, but it was an understandable type of cold. Everyday people were smoke that blew away in the wind. She’d always known Clara wouldn’t be around forever like her.

Clara smiled sadly at her immortal friend. She exited the TARDIS-disguised-as-a-diner. 

Dry desert air teased her skin. She liked the heat. Existing without a heartbeat meant she didn’t experience the unpleasantness of being too warm or cold anymore. A thousand years of that taught her not to reach up and wipe her forehead. There wouldn’t be any sweat.

Grinding dimensional stabilizers marked the diner dematerializing to reveal the barn behind it. Hot wind rippled Clara’s loose hair when she approached the ancient structure. She expected to find people upon walking inside, but saw no one. 

The Doctor’s TARDIS stood in the far corner near a door with a moon carved in it. No doubt some kind of bathroom. Clara stepped around some hay bales as she approached the TARDIS and touched the door. She smiled to herself. So many fond memories.

Snoring sounded from the bed in the loft. Snort-snort, pause, snoooort, snort-snort... She knew that snoring pattern like the back of her hand.

Clara bit her lip and ascended the creaky wooden ladder. The Doctor lay on his back, asleep. His mouth hung wide open, which explained the impressive volume of his snores. She noticed his hair was all white instead gray of like storm clouds. His bushy eyebrows resembled cotton strands. All his wrinkles were deeper, including his laugh-lines. A few new ones highlighted his cheeks. 

Something about his face seemed off. Clara tip-toed closer and saw why. What she mistook for new wrinkles were the hollows of his cheekbones and eye sockets. 

The Doctor had always been tall and a bit too skinny, but there was nothing to him now. He looked like somebody removed all the tissues between his skin and bones. Clara could tell because he’d kicked the covers off himself. Whatever contortions he did in his sleep pulled his white nightshirt’s sleeves past his elbows and caused its length to ride up to his thighs. As usual, he wasn’t wearing anything underneath it.

He was long all over. Long feet, long toes, long hands and long fingers. She tilted her head when she noticed he still wore the ring on his left hand. The bulbous middle joint was the only reason it didn’t slip right off.

Clara touched his right forearm. He always felt colder than her with his lower body temperature, but never to this degree! Of course he would be chilled-- he kicked his covers off and practically exposed himself! 

 _You daft old man_ , Clara thought. _You always make a mess of your bed and pajamas when you sleep alone_.

She pulled the length of nightshirt down and did the same with the sleeves. Then she gathered the heavy gray bed covers off the floor and tucked him in.

The Doctor grunted at the movement. He opened his eyes. They were still crystal blue, familiar and beautiful. His eyebrows knit quizzically as he struggled to focus on her. She sat on the edge of the bed and flashed the smile he promised to remember.

Recognition bloomed on his gaunt face like a mask falling away. His shocked expression shifted to form a smile that put every sun to shame. He cupped her face between his bony hands and just...looked at her. His nostrils flared and tears welled in his eyes. All the platitudes she rehearsed in her mind vanished at the sight of his trembling bottom lip. Then a pair of wiry arms pulled her into a hug so tight she was glad she didn’t need to breathe.

“Clara!” The Doctor’s voice cracked on her name. God, she missed hearing his Scottish burr. “Clara, Clara, Clara...my Clara, you’re here...I found you. How did I do that?”

She giggled and sniffled at the same time, “The same way you always do. You ran, you clever boy, and you remembered.”

Now it was his turn to sniff. He scratched her back that special zig-zag way only he knew how to do and she never wanted to move again.

“How long are you staying?”

Clara sat up to meet his eyes. His gaze rarely focused exactly center on hers. A quirk of his neurology.

“The rest of your life,” she replied.

“Mm, I see.” The Doctor licked his lips and tried to push himself onto his elbows. 

“Doctor?”

“Clara, I’ve been dreaming about you for a thousand years. I always wake up before we kiss. Can you prove I’m not dreaming now?”

Clara bent her face close to his without thinking twice about his white hair or wrinkles. Their lips met. Only their lips-- he didn’t enjoy tongues. Her kiss pushed him back down onto the bed. He still felt and tasted like silk and forever. 

Suddenly all the years they were apart didn’t matter anymore. Their love for each other hung across the time gap like a bridge over a canyon.

“How’s that? Convinced yet?” Clara said on his lips.

He crooked them forward to kiss her a second time. The corners of his eyes crinkled. “I don’t have an ice cream pain in my temple, and I’m not suddenly alone. I’m convinced. You’re real.”

“You daft old man.”

“Mmh. I’m falling asleep again,” murmured the Doctor, “I’m doing a lot of that.”

“It’s fine. Sleep if you need to. I’m not going anywhere.” 

She slipped her fingers into his fluffy hair and waited a moment before caressing his scalp. A firm stroke, almost the pressure she used when scrubbing a dirty dish. Touch was the sense he always struggled to process. Lightly brushing his skin caused him pain rather than pleasure. She had to learn, through trial and error, how to touch him properly.

And somehow, her hand automatically remembered exactly the kind of touch he liked. She slipped her fingers under the back of his head to scratch circles on the nape of his neck. He turned his head aside and her fingers traced a semicircle behind his left ear before withdrawing. She watched him reach up to repeat what she did on the right side of his head.

“I missed you,” said the Doctor, “All these years...every day...thought of you...”

That hot potato feeling came back. Clara swallowed past it and tucked a wayward curl behind his ear. “Me, too, Doctor.”

He smiled as he lapsed back into slumber. Right on cue his snoring started with a lumberjack’s fury.

Clara watched light and shadow play about the Doctor’s thin face while he rested. Her soul ached for him. How long did he suffer here, alone, before making that fateful phone call? Did he wait to give her as much time to explore as possible? 

 _You daft old man...you would do that, wouldn’t you?_  

.o

Evening turned the sky purple. Sunlight shone between the wooden planks making up the barn. Clara decided to be productive by sweeping the ground level floor with a push broom she found beside the Doctor’s TARDIS. She gave up when she realized she’d never get the loose hay into a reasonable pile. It covered the floor everywhere and she couldn’t get the broom behind the bits of farming equipment. At least it didn’t smell bad.

The Doctor stopped snoring. Seconds later, a thud came from the loft.

“Doctor?” Clara dropped the broom and scrambled up the ladder.

The Doctor was on his stomach on the floor, busily scribbling on a small chalkboard. The black No Gloom ‘Shroom protruded from the corner of his mouth. Likely a reproduction of the original-- there was no way something like that could survive a thousand years of him chewing on it.

Chalk tapped hard against the blackboard surface. The Doctor wrote the same word repeatedly in circular Gallifreyan. Clara could read enough Gallifreyan to recognize it.

_PAIN. PAIN. PAIN. PAIN._

Over and over in increasingly large strokes. He stopped to touch his right side and resumed faster than before.

Clara sat beside him, respecting his need for silence. The Doctor’s frantic stimming continued. He had certain behavior cues that communicated things when his mouth could not. His current state indicated intense focus. Breaking it would add to his distress rather than relieve it. Besides, she knew he was aware of her presence at his side.

Suddenly, he erased the board with his sleeve and started writing in English.

 _CLARA. CLARA. CLARA. CLARA_.

He pulled the stub of chalk to his nose and smelled it. Whatever bothered him appeared to pass. His posture relaxed and he sat up. A sliver of sunlight lit his white hair, then his blue eyes when he fixed them on her.

Now she could talk to him.

“Are you okay?” asked Clara.

The Doctor took the No Gloom ‘Shroom out of his mouth. It didn’t have a string or clear coil poked through it. He tucked it into his nightshirt pocket with his chalk. The chalk wasn’t in a box anymore. He carried it loose. 

"I’m not okay, Clara. I’m dying.”

Hearing him admit it sent a pain through her time-looped heart.

He went on, “You’re going back to your last moment after seeing me through mine.”

Like he’d read her mind. She bit her bottom lip and nodded.

The Doctor’s expression softened into the loving look he only gave to her. He reached sideways for her hand. She let him take it.

“Clara...Clara, Clara, Clara.” He underlined her name on the chalkboard each time he muttered it. “Do you know love isn’t an emotion?”

“Sorry?” Clara blinked.

Same old Doctor-- so notorious for statements that didn’t make sense until he finished them.

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Love isn’t an emotion, Clara. It’s a promise. And mine is very important, so pay attention.”

She scooted closer, as if what he had to say was a secret meant for no one else.

“I never found out what happens after we die.” The Doctor balled his left hand in a fist and rubbed his thumb across his knuckles. “I don’t know what happens to all the energy that drives us or if we continue to exist at all. But, Clara, if there is something after, if souls are real, physical things that can transcend time...” 

He stopped again to compose his thoughts. Talking seemed more difficult for him than usual. Not the physical act. Saying words was no problem. Getting the words from his brain to his mouth, on the other hand-- he always had trouble with that.

“Quantum Shades are intended to steal regeneration energy. But stick one into an alien who can’t regenerate and it steals life instead. Life is energy, but what happens to it after we die is anyone’s guess.”

A frustrated wrinkle appeared between his bushy eyebrows. She opened her mouth to respond, but he spoke first, “This is my promise-- I’ll come back for you. If consciousness continues after death, then I will save yours. I can’t save your life, Clara, but I may be able to save your soul.”

_“No. You're going to stay here. Promise me you will.”_

_“Why?”_

_"I'll be keeping you safe. One last victory. Allow me that. Give me that, my Impossible Girl...”_

Clara wanted to stick her fingers in her ears and yell _la-la-la-la_. She resisted the urge only because the Doctor didn’t have time anymore. Everything he did and everything he said from the moment she entered the barn until his last breath was important to her.

A painful question worked its way past her lips. “Are you dying on purpose to save me?”

“No. I’m ill. I’ve been so for a long time and this body is too far gone to survive a regeneration. Time Lord bodies...they’re funny things. I might regenerate if I had a stroke or lost a heart to a heart attack. But a slow moving disease that makes somebody ill over centuries?” He shrugged, “Those slip under the radar until we’re too ill to regenerate.” 

“And why are you sick?”

The Doctor smiled wryly, as if the irony amused him. “Bad kidneys. Notorious silent killers for Time Lords. Mine were bad since the moment I regenerated. They finally quit working six months ago after going downhill all through this incarnation. Haven’t had a wee in three weeks. I kind of like not having to drag myself to the loo every few hours.”

He scratched his head, “Let’s see...kidneys are dead, bladder is about gone. That’s what’s killing everything else. Uhh-- my pancreas is almost done for-- that’s my body’s backup filter-slash-liver cleaner. Liver’s still good. Hearts and lungs work great. Ooh, my digestive system is dead inside me, too. My organs are dying faster than I am. It’s going to be great when pieces of my insides start sloughing off and coming outside.”

Clara wanted to slap him for treating it like a joke. It wasn’t funny. She looked away. “Aren’t you in pain?”

“I was until I saw your face.”

The way he kept arching his back gave him away. That liar. He was in a lot of pain and trying to make her feel better about it.

“Fine, fine, I have pain patches.” He opened a drawer, revealing two cards of round gray patches, and pulled his nightshirt collar aside to show her the one on his shoulder. “They take the edge off. Still get some breakthrough pains, though. I think I’m gonna start needing the yellow or orange patches soon. They’re stronger.”

“Why now, Doctor?” Damn it, she was going to cry. She clenched her jaw and looked upward. He needed her to be strong right now.

Thankfully, the Doctor didn’t notice, or he did and wasn’t sure what to make of it. Dealing with other people’s emotions wasn’t his strong suit.

“Why not now?” He erased the chalkboard with two swipes of his nightshirt sleeve. “Younger versions of me are still bopping about time and space. The universe isn’t going to be without the Doctor, Clara. I’m old. I’m ill. I’m tired. It’s time to move on.”

The shaft of sunlight had shifted off his hair and onto her cheek. She wiped a rebellious tear away. “Are you scared?”

His nose crinkled as if the question tasted foul. “I died billions of times inside my confession dial. I burned myself alive to activate a teleporter that kept a copy of me in its hard drives. I remember everything about how dying feels up to what comes after. Frustrating, really...but I’m not afraid of it. You reach a point where you don’t care anymore and want the pain to be over.”

And, as if he read her mind again, he went on, “Everything goes black. You can still hear for a few seconds after that. Not as terrifying as I thought. It’s what’s _next_  that I’m curious about. I rebooted in exactly the same state I was in when I first arrived.”

A gasp died in Clara’s throat.

 _You relived the day after I died over and over. Doctor, you stupid old man_...

She had to turn away from him. Hay rustled when he scooted closer to her, trying to see her face.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“No.”

“You’re crying.” He cocked his head, “Why are you crying?”

“Because!” Clara bit back a string of uncharacteristic curses. “You were alone and scared, and I wasn’t with you. I couldn’t help you because I died. You’re rubbish at being alone, Doctor. You forget to eat and you get reckless, and--”

“Clara...” A shimmer marked him flicking his tongue across his lips. “You still helped me. I talked to you. I asked you questions and acted on all the things I knew you’d say.”

“Then you pretended to forget me. After all that, you pretended to forget me. You had me completely fooled, Doctor.”

“Living that lie and seeing how it hurt you hurt me worse than dying. I did okay at it until I started to become ill. Then I-- wait. This isn’t coming out right.” 

The Doctor opened a different drawer and took out a pile of note cards. The same ones she wrote for him a thousand years ago. They were contained inside something that looked laminated. He held them closer to his face than she remembered.

Clara squinted. “Do you keep a pair of reading glasses somewhere?”

“Why?”

She mimicked how he moved the cards near his face.

A chuckle rumbled in his throat. "My eyesight’s fine, it’s visual processing that I’m having trouble with. Takes me an extra second or two to recognize things as a cohesive whole. I need to-- ah! Hold on. I think it’s the third after these two...” 

He finally stopped ruffling the note cards and read the top one. 

“I’m terribly sorry for hurting your feelings. Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?”

Clara pushed herself to stand. Once more the threat of tears hurt her throat. She punched it down again. He needed her to be strong and brave.

“There’s something you can do for me, Doctor.”

Comically, the Doctor crawled in front of her and looked up with both eyebrows raised. The same face he made when he knew he did or said something wrong and couldn’t suss out what it was. His fluffy white hair only added to the silliness she loved so much about him. 

Smiling was unavoidable. He mirrored it hopefully.

“Give me the duty of care,” said Clara. “Let me take care of you.”

The Doctor used her as a ladder to pull himself into a standing position. Her arms automatically wrapped around his waist to prevent him from toppling backwards. He leaned heavily on her, his weight wobbly like he forgot how to balance properly, and she realized he couldn’t stand or walk unassisted anymore.

“That’s it?” he asked.

“That’s it.”

He hugged her. Very slow and deliberate.

“Deal.” His voice rumbled pleasantly in her ear, “May I make a small request of my own? It concerns where I want to die.”

“Of course. Name it. I’ll take you anywhere you want.”

The Doctor gestured to the bed and she helped him climb on. There was just enough room for them both if they huddled close together. Clara’s arms had nowhere to go except around him.

"This is where I want to die, Clara. Here. I always relax here. No place feels safer to me.”

“It’s a comfy bed,” she said, trying to deflect her own emotions.

“Not the bed.” He looked straight at her, “Your arms.”

Those damn tears were welling in her eyes now, blurring his image into the white of the pillow. “Doctor...”

She felt him kiss the tip of her nose.

“There is nothing more intimate than watching someone take their last breath. And here is the most hilarious thing about this whole situation. We’re going to do it for each other because our lives are big balls of wibbly wobbly timey wimey stuff.”

“That’s not funny.” 

Clara thought of the Doctor’s younger self seeing her die. She deliberately kept her back to him because she didn’t want his last memory of her face to be the life leaving her eyes. Knowing her death wouldn’t be his final image of her brought a strange comfort, but she still felt guilty for what he put himself through afterward.

“Doctor, what do--”

Her voice faltered when soft snores sounded from the Doctor. Well _that_  was random. He sure wasn’t kidding about the sleeping thing. 

Clara extricated herself off the bed and pulled the covers up to the Doctor’s neck. Then she hurried down the ladder and fled outside into the sunset. The tears she held back exploded free, and she cried so hard she had to sit on the hard ground.

She was going to watch the Doctor die, and it terrified her.

“Let me be brave for him," Clara pleaded with the horizon, “Let me be brave for him.”

.o

Dim solar lamps lit the barn with an eerie white glow. Like moonlight coming from the wrong direction.

Clara returned to the barn once she trusted herself not to break down. She found a little nook full of books between the TARDIS and the wall. Knitted blankets were piled up like a nest, and she could easily picture the Doctor piling the heavy blankets on top of himself and reading in the safety of his blanket fort. She made herself cozy with a crank-powered lantern hanging beside the book pile and read  _The Thorn Birds_. 

Reading used to make her sleepy at night so she could go to bed. Even after a thousand years she still expected her eyes to get heavy when the sky turned black and felt disconcerted when they didn’t. She had no trouble falling asleep, but doing that without feeling sleepy first seemed oddly wrong.

The ladder creaked. Clara switched her lantern off peeked past the corner of the TARDIS. The Doctor compensated for his inability to walk by crawling instead. He stopped occasionally to rest.

And he made a beeline for ‘her’ nook!

“Oh!” Clara squeaked at his head bumping into her arm.

“Clara?”

“Yeah.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Reading. What are _you_  doing here?”

“Looking for the right breath.”

“Why?”

“I can’t find it in the loft.”

She switched the lantern back on. His eyes looked faraway, like someone whose mind wasn’t entirely coherent. He hugged his knees and rocked back and forth.

“Don’t you know where you are, Doctor?”

His scared expression said no. “I can’t find my breath. A good breath is very important!”

How many nights did he experience this alone?

Clara closed the book and wriggled out of the little nook. “Come on, it’s chilly in this drafty corner.”

Thankfully, he let her help him walk to the ladder and then to bed.

The Doctor curled up on his right side, facing her with his hands tucked under his cheek. “Will you help me find the right breath? I’m looking for a certain one.”

“Well, what does this breath look like?”

He shrugged and touched his index finger to his nose, “Who knows? That’s probably why I can’t find it.”

“It’s hard to find things when you don’t know what you’re looking for.” She smoothed the covers over him. “How about I read to you for a bit? Maybe you’ll figure out what this breath thing looks like.”

“Okay.”

He was asleep again before she finished two pages.

Clara closed the book and rested her head on the edge of the bed. Slumber found her, but it didn’t satisfy her like it used to. She woke again when she felt a touch on her hand.

“Clara?”

Waking without grogginess or yawning never felt right. Clara stretched her arms and sat up straight. 

The solar lights were off. Sunrise hadn’t happened yet. Everything looked muted blue in the dimness.

The Doctor perched on the edge of the bed with his electric guitar in his lap. Nearby, the amp emitted faint sounds from his fingers touching the instrument’s strings. 

"I hope I didn’t scare you earlier. My brain gets muddled up. I never realize I’m doing it as it’s happening...I can only remember it after. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be fully lucid.” 

Once more, Clara contended with the hot lump in her throat. She believed something continued after death and that she would see the Doctor again...so why did this pain her so?

“I’m still staying with you. You said love is a promise, yeah? Mine is that I’ll always take care of you.”

A faint half-smile flitted over the Doctor’s aged face. “Open the drawer by my left foot.”

She found a scrap of old, dirty paper covered in his handwriting.

_Look at us. Me and you._  
_We’re blowing up the universe to say we love each other._  
_This is stupid, we can’t be that selfish._  
_My time is up. It’s over and finished._  
_You’ve done your duty of care._  
_Now I’m relieving you of it._  
_Please, love, if you can’t save me, let me go._  
_I’ll die knowing you tried everything._  
_I’ll die knowing you love me._  
_And if I have to go back and die..._  
_I have always loved you._  
_I love you._  
_I will always love you._

He remembered every syllable of what she told him in the Cloisters.

Clara opened her mouth to speak. She stopped herself when the Doctor’s eyebrows settled into a relaxed line. He strummed the tune he plucked in the diner a thousand years ago. Now it sounded more refined with shimmery chord embellishments. His long fingers glided nimbly on the silver strings and he began to rock gently back and forth.

Clara had no idea how much she missed seeing him fall into his music.

Dawn’s first light poured between the gaps in the barn wall as the Doctor began to _sing_. He sang in Gallifreyan. The lyrics rhymed seamlessly. He was a tenor, his voice strong and clear.

Clara knew exactly what he sang to her. He turned their moment in the Cloisters-- their love-- into this song. A piece of music she would only hear once and never share with the universe. His love for her shone on his face and she felt every ounce of it radiating off him like sunbeams.

.o

Going outside for a moment became Clara’s way of collecting herself whenever she didn’t want the Doctor seeing her strength falter.

Earlier, the Doctor wanted to wear proper clothes instead of a nightshirt. She chose his holey jumper, hoodie, coat and trousers so he didn’t have to meddle with buttons. The garments hung off his gaunt body, which had shrunk two clothing sizes smaller. He muttered about his clothes randomly growing and cinched his belt as tight as it would go.

“There,” Clara had said once his boots were tied, “Better?”

“Mmhmm. Thank you.”

The Doctor laid back on his bed. Clara headed outside to un-see the image of his ribs standing out. She did not want to remember him as a frail, sick old man.

Dry, stinging wind blew her hair across her mouth. Two strands stuck to her lips. She brushed them away and tucked the rebellious lock behind her ear.

Living like the Doctor honestly let her appreciate the fragility of life. She saw entire planets vaporized by supernovae. She saw stars shed their nebular shells. She saw things the human mind should not be able to comprehend.

Me made a nice companion, but living until the end of time left her emotions dulled. She was slowly forgetting how to feel them. Sometimes Clara found herself fighting off that sense of distance. Less attachment to things that wouldn’t last meant less pain. But missing people indicated how important they were. Sometimes Me forgot that. Clara hoped traveling with her helped the girl remember the things her finite human memory often cast away.

A strong breeze kicked up sand. Clara had enough and ventured back into the barn.

The TARDIS door was open. She walked towards it to pull it shut, yet halted at hearing the Doctor’s Scottish brogue inside.

“Heh, you old girl...we had a lot of fun together, didn’t we?” A pause, then, “Listen-- I didn’t mean it when I insulted you for not working how I wanted you to. You did the best you could. I couldn’t ask for a finer TARDIS.”

Clara dared to peek through the open doors. The Doctor leaned on the central console. One hand supported his weight while the other lovingly patted the controls on each panel in turn. When he got to the locking mechanism, he kissed his fingertips and gently caressed it like something precious.

“Thank you,” he said to it. Louder, he added, “I can hear you skulking out there, Clara. You might as well come in.”

Embarrassed, Clara entered and stood awkwardly at the bottom of the staircase. “I didn’t want to intrude.”

“Just saying goodbye to Sexy here.” He wiped his eyes with his sleeve and snapped his fingers to shut the doors. “Come on. I’ve got one last trip to take. It’ll be like old times. But first...”

The Doctor handed Clara a white microchip inside a flat plastic container the size of a matchbox.

“This is a backup of my TARDIS library. Give it to Me...er, the immortal Me, not _me_. She might get bored and there’s enough books in here to entertain her until the end of time.”

“Doctor--”

“I insist. Books and libraries are terrible things to waste, and I spent a long time building that collection. Please, Clara, this is important to me.”

She let him place the chip on her palm and close her fingers over it. His cold hands and pale fingernail beds were a silent reminder of how short his time was.

Clara tucked the backup chip into her jeans pocket. She made sure he saw her do it to prevent him from worrying about her losing it. “I’ll make sure Me gets it.”

Relief briefly smoothed the lines on the Doctor’s aged face. He withdrew to wrap his long fingers around the locking mechanism and pulled it towards himself. Grinding dimensional stabilizers vibrated the console room. Lights flashed all around. Nostalgia filled the air.

“Ah, yes, yes...” The Doctor sighed, his voice a little hoarse, “You sing beautifully, old girl, yes, you always do.”

Clara scooted over and wrapped her arms around him from behind. A tight hold how he liked it. He tensed by reflex, relaxed again and patted her forearm. She tried not to notice how easily she felt his spine through three layers of clothing.

“That’s new. What’s the flickering purple light?” Clara pointed to the console.

“A Matrix blocking program. The TARDIS will do two things for me when I’m dead. First, she will prevent my consciousness from being uploaded into the Matrix. I don’t want to go there, I want to see what _really_  happens when we die.”

He rested both hands flat on the console.

“Secondly, the moment I’m brain-dead is the moment the TARDIS will dematerialize and throw herself at the end of time. The time vortex goes a little past that, but you run into antimatter before you hit nothingness. The friction of going through that vaporizes even the hardiest war TARDISes.”

Swallowing, Clara squeezed the Doctor a little tighter. “What about you? What do you want me to do when you...go?”

The Doctor casually eased the locking mechanism upright and the TARDIS emitted its telltale materialization thumps.

“That’s easy. Burn the barn down with my body still inside. I have three canisters of a highly flammable chemical. Soak everything and light it. Don’t let a trace of me stay behind. I refuse to leave anything for the Time Lords to reanimate. No, let me blow away like smoke, Clara. That’s what everything does in the end anyway. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes, Doctor. I will.”

Such a heavy exchange weighed the atmosphere down like a depressing cloud. Clara decided to lighten the mood by bumping her chin against the Doctor’s shoulder.

“So, where are we?”

“The edge of the visible universe.” The Doctor’s voice rumbled through his back.

“Ooh, why?” Clara and leaned on the console next to him.

Rather than answer, he curled his fingers against a dial.

“You've got all these planets revolving around suns, and all those suns revolving around in galaxies, and all those galaxies revolving around each other. If you take the gravity patterns and feed them to the TARDIS harmonic filter, you can hear the universe sing. That’s why I brought you here.”

The Doctor smiled, all teeth and twinkling eyes, and tilted his head back as though drinking in something wonderful. Clara concentrated with all her might. She only heard faint tones mimicking the way her ears rang when moving between loud and quiet environments.

“I can’t hear it like you can,” she said softly, “But I’m sure it’s beautiful.”

He balked, “You can hear it?”

Her mouth quirked in a half-smile, “Maybe it’s your autistic super hearing.”

A groan escaped him and he leaned forward. His elbows plunked on the console and he rubbed his hands through his all-white hair. He looked utterly crushed.

Clara licked her lips and peered at the central time rotor. “There’s still a way you can show me the music, Doctor.”

“How?” he asked grumpily, “And don’t suggest I hack your ears. It doesn’t work like that.”

“I wasn’t going to suggest that.” She eyed him playfully, “Turn off the gravity and dance with me.”

Both the Doctor’s eyebrows rose. “I can do better than that.” And he switched off the gravity. “Come along!” He said as he walked to the door with one hand clinging to the railing.

The grand structure of the universe lay before them. Each tiny pinprick was a starry galaxy. From afar, the galactic superclusters looked like massive cobwebs floating in blackness. People didn’t call it the cosmic web for nothing.

Clara recognized the faint wobbliness of an artificial atmosphere and force field. It formed a large sphere around the TARDIS exterior. She felt a rising sensation in her stomach and lost all sense of up from down. 

“Clara!” The Doctor drifted towards her, “Take my hand.”

She almost missed grabbing onto his thin fingers. He pulled her close to his body. His clothes smelled vaguely like cedar. She pressed her ear against his chest and listened to his hearts thump behind his ribs. At the same time, he kissed the top of her head and buried his nose in her hair. 

“You still smell like peaches,” murmured the Doctor. He sounded so pleased.

“I like that shampoo,” Clara said back. “I don’t need to shower as much-- only if I get dirty. And I haven’t had to shave my legs or get a haircut in a thousand years. Let’s see _you_ beat that record.”

The Doctor chortled, his breath ruffling her hair, “I don’t shave my legs, Clara, I shave my face.”

"Tch! And you call me a pedant.”

“Yes, yes. So...” The Doctor grasped her right hand in his left and placed his right on her lower back. “I’m afraid I won’t be as acrobatic this time, but...” 

He gave her one of those smoldering looks that sent her heart and stomach fluttering when her body wasn’t time-looped. The emotion felt no less powerful in her mind. Right then the universe could explode again and she wouldn’t notice because he held her spellbound.

He asked, “May I have this dance, m’lady?”

Clara focused her brown eyes on his blue ones and laid her free hand by his shoulder. “Sweep me away, space man.”

The Doctor’s body shifted position. He kicked off the force field. That was all the warning he gave before closing his eyes to let the music only he could hear lead him. Their Gallifreyan waltz-- Clara likened it to an ice skating duet in all directions-- carried them in a slow orbit around the outside of the TARDIS. 

His movements perfectly translated the song of the universe into something tangible. She felt stars being born and dying. She felt planets orbiting their suns. She felt galaxies and quasars and the cosmic microwave background. She felt the universe-- all of time and space-- personified through him. Then they kissed and it was like the big bang that brought everything into being.

“Ooh...” The Doctor stopped dancing. His right hand moved off her side to grasp at his lower back.

Clara’s smile slipped. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. I just--” Whatever he wanted to say cut off momentarily, “--my body is trying to regenerate. That’s what causes me the most p-- grr!” He doubled into a fetal position, his neck and wrists glowing faintly gold. “Slow diseases-- are the-- worst!”

More pain twisted his face. He wrapped his arms around himself, both hands clutching at his sides. 

“Clara...sorry...I’m ruining this aren’t I?”

“Shh, no you’re not.” 

Clara drifted closer to slip one arm behind his shoulders and the other under his knees. A light kick of her feet propelled her into the open TARDIS door. Maneuvering inside took some wiggling. The Doctor helped by grabbing onto railings until she was able to turn the gravity back on with her foot. In a moment he would be too heavy for her again. She quickly set him down on the black chair near the console.

“Is it any better?”

“No. It’s getting worse.” The Doctor kept his head bowed and she only saw his white curls. “Diagnostics panel-- white box.”

Nodding, she retrieved what he asked for. He took a yellow patch out and struggled to peel it off the card. She finally did it for him. He pointed to his shoulder. She reached under the neckline of his holey jumper and smoothed the patch onto his cool skin.

The Doctor tugged repeatedly on his coat lapel to get the comforting scent of his pocket chalk. He grimaced. It wasn’t helping this time.

“Need some pressure?” asked Clara.

He leaned backwards without a word. She straddled his lap so she could lean her full weight on his chest. Her arms tightly encircled his shoulders, her knees squeezed his hips and her legs crooked backwards to press against his shins. Both his fists clutched the material of her light blue sweater. 

His throat clenched. Air hissed wetly between his teeth.

“The medicine will work soon,” Clara murmured against his cheek.

“Not soon enough,” growled the Doctor, his voice thin. “This-- p-pain isn’t the worst part. It’s knowing-- it will hurt w-worse next time...and the n-not knowing _when_ \-- it will hurt next t-time. There’s no order.” Tension wound his body tight. A very specific kind of tight. “I can’t p-predict it. I-I...c-cant...stop...”

Clara caught herself on the console when he shoved her off his lap and threw himself onto the TARDIS floor.

“Stop!” The Doctor pounded on the floor with his fists, “Stop! Stop! Stop!” He aimed a few blows at the side of his own head. That was something she never saw him do before. “Stop, stop, _stop!_ ”

Once, he told her meltdowns felt like his body exploding into a million pieces while only he could feel it. Sharp, fast, percussive movements and vocalizations helped keep that explosion bearable. 

Now the state of his bedclothes on her arrival made more sense. He wasn’t doing gymnastics in his sleep, he was resting after _that_.

Clara looked away, giving him some privacy without leaving him at risk of hurting himself on the surrounding equipment. His fists sent vibrations through the floor each time he pounded it. The impacts ceased as abruptly as they started. The explosion was over, now the fallout began.

The Doctor sniffled. He stayed laying on his side rather than sit upright. Clara reached out when he glanced up at her. His hands immediately rose in a defensive posture. He didn’t want to be touched this time. She nodded, sat cross-legged on the floor by his head and struggled against the lump in her own throat.

“Breathe, Doctor.” Her voice cracked on his name.

This time it ran over her too fast. She couldn’t leave without abandoning him.

 _Nobody can be strong forever,_  Clara thought bitterly. She bowed her head and started to weep as hard as the Doctor. A tear for every year she wasn’t with him, another tear for the pain he endured without her, and endless sobs that cursed the universe for depending on her death to stay together.

The Doctor cupped her knee. She laid on the floor, mirroring his curled-up pose. Their knees and foreheads touched. He stroked her cheek with his palm while avoiding direct eye contact. Even in the midst of his own turmoil, he thought of her above himself. He knew she couldn’t reciprocate without causing him pain. 

That damn, selfless fool!

“Breathe,” Clara sobbed, not knowing whether she said it to herself or the Doctor.

“Breathe,” the Doctor echoed her.

“Stop trying to talk before you’re done melting down,” she said. Every time she didn’t think she could love him more, he proved she could. Always with simple little things like that.

The Doctor moved his other hand to cover his face. His shaking shoulders changed tempo.

Clara’s voice cracked, “Are you _laughing?_ ”

He nodded, uncovering his eyes to reveal a tear-streaked grin that crinkled his wrinkles. A laughter so intense he hardly made a sound or drew breath. His face went tomato red. At last his voice caught up and he wheezed, still unable to speak.

No words were necessary. Clara realized the absurdity of people like them crying on the TARDIS floor about something they couldn’t change. The Doctor’s cracking-up-too-hard-to-breathe face only added to the ridiculousness. 

Her chest felt like somebody poured sugar water on her heart. Pretty soon her sobbing also became sniffling guffaws.

The Doctor rolled onto his back. His body shook so hard his shoulders kept bouncing slightly off the metal floor. Clara turned on her stomach with one arm thrown across his waist.

“Okay, okay...” She inhaled deeply, “I’m okay. Are you okay?”

“Mmhmm,” replied the Doctor.

“Good.” Clara lifted her head. 

The Doctor lost it again the moment their eyes met. She fell apart right along with him. He hugged her tight and she buried her face in his throat. His neck muscles flexed with his laughter.

They spent a good thirty minutes that way. Neither could talk or look at the other without bursting into snickers.

“Can I kiss you when we settle down?” asked Clara.

“Yes,” snickered the Doctor. “Meltdown’s over. Skin to skin is okay again.”

And the next time their amusement abated, she descended on him. She didn’t care that he looked old, gaunt and sick. He was the Doctor... _her_  Doctor, and she wanted-- needed-- to feel him. He pressed into it, his lips faintly salty from the tears that ran across them earlier. 

Clara nipped his luscious bottom lip and nuzzled her mouth against the stubble underneath it. That was the only place on his body where tickling sensations didn’t cause him pain.

“Clara, wait...” The Doctor turned his head aside, halting her advance down his chin. “I can’t go past kissing. My little soldier doesn’t stand at attention anymore.”

She relaxed when she realized she hadn’t set off his sensory defensiveness. “I can’t go past kissing either. No pulse and all my bio-functions are time-looped. I need blood flow to get aroused. Funny, I don’t really miss it that much.”

The wrinkles around the corner of his mouth deepened. “My naked body isn’t much to look at anyhow. I’m a wasted away bag of organs.”

“Hey.” Clara rubbed the sandpaper roughness of his lower jaw. “I wouldn’t be here if I was that shallow, Doctor. I almost was, once. Now I know better.” Into his ear, she whispered, “You’re still attractive to _me_. I'd make love to you right now if I could.”

He looked gobsmacked. “Do you mean that?” 

She nodded, touching his bottom lip with her index finger. “Am I still attractive to you?”

The Doctor framed her face between his hands and gazed at her. His eyes, so blue in the dim lighting, lidded slightly into the _‘I-love-you’_  look he showed no one else. 

“Clara Oswald, you never look unattractive to me.”

Her cheeks would’ve flushed pink if she had a pulse. She slipped her hands into the fluffy white curls on the back of his head to cushion it from the floor. He did that adorable little mouth pout that crooked his lips forward. 

They kissed again. Being without the urgency of physical desire let them do it slowly and truly experience the softness of each other. 

Clara pulled back after a moment and looked affectionately at the Doctor. Sometimes, she swore galaxies made up the light in his eyes. No lone star by itself could shine like _that_. 

He started to blink and shift his eyes more often, a cue indicating he’d had enough eye contact. She averted her gaze by turning towards the console.

“Thank you for bringing me here. That dance was wonderful.”

“I’ve still got it,” he smirked, “But I’m tired now...we should head back.”

“Yeah, you look a bit worn out.”

The Impossible Girl and the aging Time Lord picked themselves up off the floor. He rematerialized the TARDIS in the barn and walked himself out using the railings. Clara watched the Doctor lean against the TARDIS. He closed his eyes and sighed. Then he pushed off, letting her walk him to the loft.

She wriggled her clothes off when the Doctor did the same. He quirked a bushy eyebrow at her.

“Clara, what are you doing?”

“Making love isn’t always sex, Doctor. Wasn’t your favorite part the laying in bed together afterward?”

He blinked. Afternoon light flickered across his face. She saw her statement bounce off his skull without sinking in. 

“Yes, so?”

“Soooo...” Clara laid her naked self down and patted the mattress, “Let’s hold each other as if we’re finished.”

Now he got it. A few moments later they lay together under the covers. Nothing stood between them except their flesh. 

Hearing the air whoosh through his nostrils when he breathed sounded like a dream. She didn’t care that his hip bone jabbed her thigh and his shoulder didn’t cushion her head how it used to. His skin was still as silky as she remembered. 

“I missed this,” murmured the Doctor.

“Me, too,” Clara said back.

He swirled his fingers in little circles on her shoulder. She rubbed her fingertips firmly across his collarbones.

“So what did you do for those thousand years, Doctor?”

Instead of using words, he cupped the back of her head and held his breath for a few seconds. Images flitted across her mind like a slide show on fast forward. Glimpses of him saving people, stopping a war and running around the universe with a companion in tow. 

Not a day went by that he didn’t think of her, so she let him see how he occupied her thoughts equally often. His love for her rose to surround her like his arms, and in turn she mirrored him.

The images faded. He exhaled slowly. 

“Clara...Clara, Clara, Clara, Clara...”

“Hm?”

“Sorry...stimming.”

Clara giggled. “Do you do that with other peoples’ names?”

The Doctor didn’t reply, choosing instead to bury his nose in her hair as sleep claimed him. 

Hours drifted by. The sun went down. Clara stayed by the Doctor, quietly listening to his breathing. He snored and twitched a lot. She gradually grew aware of a faint noise, like a pipe leaking. 

The Doctor jerked awake. He gasped, straining, his expression contorted in anguish.

“No...no, no, no...stop that!”

“Doctor?”

“Clara, please get off the bed.”

“What’s wr--”

“Just do it, Clara, please!”

Clara got up, careful not to disturb the covers too much and cause him a chill. She threw her sweater and trousers on in record time. “Are you all right?”

“No!” The Doctor rubbed both hands down his face. “No, no, no...”

“Doctor! Talk to me-- what’s wrong?”

"I’m weeing the bed! I can’t _stop_... Gah! I'm--” He picked his head up and let it fall onto the pillow again, “I’m a grown man and I’m weeing my bed like a bloody fuckin' baby.”

Hearing the Doctor swear like that shocked Clara more than the unfolding accident. She picked her jaw up off the floor and reached out to him. 

“Doctor, it’s okay. I’ll take care of it. Are you done going?” 

“No. There’s a lot.”

“Tell me wh--”

“Shut up! You’re not helping!” The Doctor covered his face again. He grimaced like he wanted to cry.

Clara averted her gaze. His brusqueness didn’t hurt as much as seeing him struggle for his last scraps of dignity. She avoided looking at him until she heard the bedding rustle. He was giving himself the little shake that removed any lingering drops.

“I didn’t mean to swear at you,” said the Doctor, "Clara...”

“It’s okay. Let’s get you off the bed and covered with something warm. Here, the top cover is still dry. Wrap up in that.”

The Doctor wouldn’t look at her. He used a clean area of the sheets to wipe himself dry as best he could. Clara draped the top cover around his gaunt frame and helped him sit down on the floor. 

“I never felt an urge.” He rubbed the inner corners of his eyes. “That’s not the usual...that was my last incarnation. I had a watch that told me when to-- ugh. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“What? Accidents happen. Nothing to be ashamed of. I wet the bed every time I went to sleep drunk while in college. Yup, I was one of _those_  college people. Still made straight A’s.” It occurred to her that she was babbling like he sometimes did when a silence got too awkward. She went on, “Wait, what’s that about a watch?”

The Doctor scratched the back of his head. He sniffed the air. His horrific embarrassment was suddenly gone. 

“I never felt my bathroom urges in my last incarnation. The watch vibrated as a prompt to use the loo every few hours. Otherwise I weed and pooed myself.” 

That certainly explained past conversations being interrupted by him glancing at his watch and sputtering,  _“Excuse me, need to use the loo. Be right back!”_  

Clara pulled the sheets aside to assess the damage to the bed and stared in horror at the large reddish-brown bloodstain. She threw the sheets over it again when she smelled a stench similar to decay. Two quick tugs wadded all of the bedding up. The mattress underneath felt slightly damp, but it escaped staining. Good. No, excellent. One less thing to worry about.

Thinking of sunshine and kittens helped her put cheer in her voice, “Is there any fresh bedding anywhere?”

“The chest in the corner,” the Doctor said, pointing to it. “And there’s a washing machine on the floor below. It runs on solar power. Clara?”

“Okay, I’ll get this-- huh?”

“You don’t have to pretend. I realize it’s not wee. I can tell by the smell.”

“...Oh.” So much for hiding it. “Yeah...it’s blood.”

"No, that’s liquefied kidney tissue.” The Doctor laid down on the floor, using a corner of the top cover as a pillow. “That’s what I meant by my insides coming outside. It’s starting...I’m bleeding internally.” 

“Did I cause it by asking you to dance?” Clara swallowed, fingertips clutching at the soiled bedding. “Doctor, did I hurt you?”

“Huh? No, it was bound to happen no matter what. It’s a slow abdominal bleed, but it’s what’s going to kill me. The bright side?” A wry smile quirked his lips, “I’ll be dead before my hearts and lungs turn into pudding. You’ll be spared the sight of me coughing them up.”

“Bright side...right...”

He kept talking, oblivious to the effects his words were having on her, “I have less than forty-eight hours. In fact, I expect to start actively dying pretty soon.”

Coldness lurched down Clara’s spine at the stark reminder of how short his time was.

“Less than-- right. Okay. Um, excuse me, I need to take care of this.”

She rushed the soiled bedding to the first floor and threw it in the washing machine. It started automatically and looked like it knew what to do, so she left it to chug away. Back up the ladder she went to redress the bed in clean linens. _Doing_ things kept her rattled emotions under control.

The Doctor needed help putting something on so he wasn’t sitting around nude. Clara grabbed a pinstriped blue nightshirt with a floppy collar. She made sure he had chalk in his chest pocket and guided him back to bed.

“I’m scared.” She finally admitted it once they were cozy again. “This sounds like rubbish. I can’t picture the days after you’re gone. They don’t exist to me.”

“That’s how I feel when moments somebody’s timeline show up gray. I can say this-- the universe will go on.”

She squinted, “Do you remember the promise you made to me?”

“Yes.” The answer left his lips with utter confidence and without hesitation. “But I don’t want to spend this time talking about that. There’s something else I want to tell you. Not many earn this. But you, Clara Oswald, deserve to know.” 

The Doctor swallowed hard, as if gathering himself. He whispered something Gallfreyan in Clara’s ear. She recognized exactly what he said as soon she heard _Basil_  at the start of the first word. Her heart would’ve skipped a beat if it wasn’t already stuck between one and the next.

The Doctor just told her his full name. And it was beautiful.

Clara repeated it back to him. His eyes gleamed in the moonlight shining through the gaps in the barn wall boards.

“Clara,” He tapped his fingertip against her bottom lip, “Thank you for everything.”

Then a bright golden glow flooded his torso as if his skin was lit from within. He yelped, both fists clutching the length of his nightshirt.

“Doctor?”

“Bad one...need clear patches!” He gasped, “The b-biggest ones. Hurry! S-stupid...b-body-- you’re too ill!”

Clara launched herself off the bed to tear through the designated medicine drawer. The patches she sought were at the very bottom. “Where should I stick it?”

The Doctor pulled his nightshirt up, uncaring that he’d exposed himself. “Below-- my b-belly button. K-keep your hand over it. Warm it up so it works faster. P-please hurry...it’s g-getting worse!”

She stuck the patch to his quivering abdomen. Right between his belly button and white pubic hair. “Is this where it hurts?”

“Yes.”

She kissed him there and cupped both hands over the medicine patch. His belly tensed and relaxed. She caught him biting his knuckle and gave him his No Gloom ‘Shroom instead. He readily accepted the sensory redirect while she rubbed his forearm.

“C-Clara...are you angry with me?”

“Sorry?”

He sucked a shuddering breath. “For losing myself...for robbing you of your death...for being a selfish pudding brain _idiot_...”

The Doctor wasn’t asking her to placate his conscience with useless lies.

Clara inhaled. “I was a bit mad, yeah. _Was_.”

His hands slipped down to cover hers.

She kept talking, “I’m not mad now, Doctor. You lost yourself, and I helped you find _you_ again. You gave me a final moment I’ll never forget. Nobody in the universe can make their last heartbeat last a thousand years. Nobody else is that lucky. I made it count. I made it _matter_.”

Short gasps mixed themselves into soft groans. Clara remembered how he made those exact same noises when he neared the peak of lovemaking. Those sputtering moans and gasps used to turn her on something fierce. Now they took on a new, painful meaning.

“I-I’m glad...so glad...” The Doctor lifted his head off the pillow, “The patch is kicking in. It’s a different medicine...makes me very sleepy. Ah-- Clara, you can let go of it now.”

Clara lowered his nightshirt and rejoined him under the covers. She laid her cheek upon his shoulder and cried without hiding it from him. He turned on his left side to let her bury her face in his chest. She clung to his bedclothes, sobbing for all she was worth. He kissed the top of her head and let her cry.

Weeping as if he already died seemed universally _wrong_ , yet she couldn’t stop. What if he died an ugly death while she helplessly watched? What if she failed him by stepping away and missing his last breath? What if he screamed or begged to live? What if it _hurt?_  

He started to speak, “Clara, it’s--”

“I love you,” Clara cut him off. She said it like she did in the Cloisters

“Did you hear my hearts go faster?” asked the Doctor, his words muffled by the chewable stim toy.

“Yes.”

He took the No Gloom 'Shroom out of his mouth and set it on the nightstand. “Good. That was me saying I love you, too.”

“Say that again. Say you love me.”

A touch on her upper back prompted her to look up. Their eyes met. His, as always, were slightly off-center to hers, but no less evocative.

“I love you, Clara Oswald.”

She kissed those words off his lips. He whispered them in her ear, against her brow and on her mouth. They floated on his breath until he fell into a medicine-induced sleep.

.o

Clara heard the Doctor stir a short hour later. A drawer growled on its tracks and a thud marked him flopping onto the floor to stick his face in it. She finally peeked over the edge of the bed.

He was picking through a pile of socks. She watched him examine a pair, toss it aside and pick up another.

“Doctor? What are you doing?”

The Doctor looked at her. His eyes had that faraway glaze. “Trying to find my last breath. I can’t take an ugly one when I leave. Time Lords don’t take ugly breaths, but...” He grabbed the socks he already cast away and threw them over his shoulders, “...these are hideous! This is unacceptable!”

Clara joined him on the floor. She had no idea he was flexible enough to sit in the W position. His knobby knees and long feet stuck out from beneath his blue nightshirt.

“These are socks, Doctor.”

“No, they’re breaths! And that’s just it. I don’t _know_  what kind of breath I’m looking for. I’m afraid I _won’t_  know which one is right until it’s too late.” His features contorted like he wanted to cry, “It’s very important! The right breath for me can’t be wet or too small, it has to fit perfectly.”

Pain crushed Clara’s throat. She swallowed past it and said, “I’m sure you’ll recognize it when the time comes. Sometimes the things we’re looking for don’t appear until it’s time to face them.”

The Doctor raised himself enough to swing his legs around and sit with his knees pointing straight at the ceiling. This position hiked his nightshirt up to bare everything. He, of course, didn’t seem to notice or care as he discarded yet another pair of socks.

Clara grabbed the fabric draped across his knees and pulled it downward. He glanced at her before putting it right back where it was. She slapped her palm into her forehead.

“Doctor...”

“What?”

“Your private parts are hanging out.”

“Oh.”

He covered himself, laid down right where he was and shut his eyes.

She sighed, not sure whether to be amused or miffed. “Hey, let’s get you back into bed.”

“I am in bed.”

“But I see a better one.”

He began gathering up the socks. “Okay, show me the better one after I clean this up.”

Clara waited until he placed the last set of socks in their proper drawer. Then he raised his arms towards her. He weighed so little now. She couldn’t physically carry him, but she had no trouble pulling him into a standing position by the hands. Keeping a palm flat on his back let her coax him into bed.

“Could you lay on me? The blankets aren’t heavy enough.”

“I might hurt you.”

The Doctor smiled faintly. His eyes were clear again. “You won’t.”

Clara straddled his hips first to avoid accidentally crushing his man bits. She lowered her upper body before curling her legs around his. This let her lay almost completely on top of him.

“Ohh...yes, perfect.” He embraced her in return, “Thank you, Clara. I lost myself  a bit there, but you found me.”

“I can always find you,” she replied, smoothing his nightshirt collar.

The Doctor flashed his toothy grin and immediately dozed off again. Clara laid her head in the hollow under his chin. She counted his heartbeats while he slept until she found slumber, too. 

.o 

Watching somebody experience the physical process of dying had many similarities to watching someone go through labor. Dying bodies did things to prepare for death just like laboring pregnant bodies got ready to push out a baby. Some of these preparations were ugly and scary to those who didn’t understand. 

Clara saw a lot of death during her thousand years with Me. She knew the signs of its imminent approach, but she didn’t know how the Doctor would present them until they began appearing.

In the his case, it began with an increase in all the autistic behaviors he usually concealed or suppressed.

She leaned past him just before dawn to fix his pillow. Her hair brushed his cheek. He woke with a wail and started slapping his face as if she set it aflame.

“Oh, no, no, Doctor!” Clara clasped his hand tightly between hers to protect him from himself. He was shaking from the pain. She kissed and firmly rubbed his ‘burned’ cheek. Then she did the same on the other cheek to even out the sensory input. His trembling slowly gave way to rapid breathing.

“I’m sorry,” Clara whispered, kissing his cheek again, ”Is that better?” 

He peered at her with sleepy blue eyes and puckered his lips. She gave him a peck on the mouth. 

Verbal language had ceased entirely, yet the Doctor didn’t require words to communicate. Being so familiar with his nonverbal cues and facial expressions-- particularly his eyebrows-- let Clara figure out his needs with relative accuracy. 

He tugged on the arm of her sweater. She gladly climbed into bed with him and he wrapped his arms around her. He slept like that until morning sunbeams streamed through the boards making up the barn walls. 

The Doctor woke up flicking his fingers near his face, something he said he did during his childhood. His fingertips swirled with the dust motes in the air. 

“Are you dancing?” Clara asked him. “Can I dance with you?”

His expression brightened when she placed her hands by his. He interlocked their fingers and moved their hands with same the rhythm as their zero gravity dances. She saw him smiling through the corner of her eye. He finally hugged her forearm to his chest and dozed off again.

Mid-morning brought intensifying pain. The Doctor expressed it by frowning, baring his top teeth and chewing on anything that came close to his mouth. Pillowcases, sheets, clothing...and Clara’s finger got bitten once. He knew he did it and he looked utterly horrified that he couldn’t stop himself.

“Shhh, it was an accident.” Clara soothed him.

The colored pain patches weren’t helping. She took out the big clear ones. He wanted it on his lower back, so she placed it there.

His issues with biting and chewing continued. He needed a redirect, but he kept dropping his No Gloom ‘Shroom and going right back to chewing the pillowcase or his sleeve.

Clara found twine and a triangular pin similar to safety pins in a drawer. She pinned his No Gloom ‘Shroom to his pillow. Now he couldn’t lose it. He was perfectly happy to chomp whenever he pleased. Later, she added a fabric pouch with his chalk because he kept “dripping” pieces out of his nightshirt pocket. That _really_  calmed him down-- she went to get last night’s sheets from the laundry, came back to put them away and found him sound asleep with the stem of the No Gloom ‘Shroom in his mouth and the chalk pouch nearly flush against his nose.

She hated how the strongest pain patches knocked him out when he had so little time left. Given the choice of awake and in pain or asleep and comfortable she chose to let him sleep.

That afternoon, the Doctor suddenly launched himself right off the bed. Clara wasn’t quick enough to catch him before he hit the floor. She watched in silent horror as he curled up on his side, holding his stomach. He bore down and decay-scented blood poured from his backside. Exactly the same stuff he thought he urinated the previous night.

The puddle expanded to half the size of his torso. Hay and his nightshirt soaked most of it up. There were three waves before it finally ended. He exhaled and opened his eyes.

“Oh...” Clara stopped him from trying to crawl under the bed. “Doctor, you didn’t poo yourself. Stay still, let’s keep the mess in one place.”

Clara aided him in removing the soiled nightshirt. Easy to do since it unbuttoned all the way down the front. There were long strings of tissue stuck to the fabric and she realized he just shed his intestinal lining. He scooted away from the smelly puddle on the floor without looking at it or the nightshirt. 

She tried to lighten the mood by saying, “The good news is you avoided getting any of that on the bed.” 

The Doctor gave no response. He stared angrily ahead at nothing in particular. She watched his sides heave as he breathed. His belly was slightly distended and a swath of purple bruising hinted at the blood loss taking place inside his body.

“I need to dry you off so you don’t stain everything you sit on. Will you let me do that?” 

Clara waited a moment before using the clean parts of his nightshirt to wipe the worst of the fluid off him. He didn’t resist at all. She tried helping him upright by tugging on his hands. No cooperation this time. Sheer desperation made her scoop his thin frame off the floor bridal style and transfer him two steps forward onto the bed. Not a feat she’d be able to repeat. He cocooned himself in the comforter while she took the soiled nightshirt to the washing machine, got rid of the sticky hay and mopped the muck off the floor.

The Doctor dozed until early evening. A restless, unhappy slumber.

Near sunset, Clara filled a bucket with warm water and gave him a long, loving sponge bath. She started at his face and worked her way down-- the same order he bathed himself-- and she told him everything she intended to do before doing it.

Pain prevented him from rolling onto his stomach unassisted, but he straightened or bent his limbs whenever she asked him to. Washing his midsection provided a unique challenge because downward pressure hurt him as much as light touches. She did it quickly to minimize his discomfort.

Clara kissed the Doctor’s skin as she washed him clean. Each was a tiny benediction she hoped would soak up the pain plaguing his body. He kissed back when she reached his lips. It felt more intimate than all the times they made love.

“Ready for me to wash your hair?”

The Doctor waggled his eyebrows without opening his eyes. Clara used a washbasin, shampoo with an ocean breeze scent and a pitcher. Towels kept his neck at a comfortable angle. She scrubbed his scalp thoroughly, hoping to scratch all his itches and let him experience something pleasant. He relaxed, a sleepy look of blissful abandon riveted on his face.

Once upon a time, washing his hair led to steamy romps in the shower. The warm memory had her smiling while rinsing out the shampoo. His hair got _really_ fluffy once it was clean, dry and combed. 

Clara redressed the Doctor in a fresh black nightshirt. He always looked fantastic in black. She cradled his head in her lap and shaved the stubble off his face using the gel and straight razor she found in a drawer. He wasn’t going to end his life looking like a scraggly mess if she had something to say about it. 

“I’m going to shave your upper lip now. You’ll feel some downward strokes. Ready? One, two, three...” 

The Doctor’s agitation abated almost immediately. A good wash and a shave did wonders. Clara spent the sunset hours telling him stories about her time travel adventures. Sometimes, he smirked. Others, he frowned. Often, he didn’t respond at all. She spoke anyway, knowing he heard every word. Her talk tapered off when he started snoring. Snores were always his sleep cue. 

At nightfall, congested-sounding exhales replaced the snoring. Listening to that rattle scared Clara more than she wanted to admit. She knew what it meant and she knew it wasn’t bothering him, but that didn’t make it any less disturbing.

Sunrise found Clara lying in bed beside the ailing Doctor. He rested with his head thrown back against the pillow, his mouth hanging agape, and his ashen complexion blended his forehead into his hair. The gurgles of his exhales went on for ages before rasping into the next inhale. 

How could such a timeless man look equally powerful and fragile?

“Doctor?” Clara whispered.

She didn’t expect a response, but she got one. He raised and lowered his eyebrows without opening his eyes. 

Her chest ached as she smoothed a wayward curl by his left ear. He was going to die that day, maybe within that hour. One look at him and she just knew.

“We’re in your bed.” She nuzzled her lips against his cheek, “You’re safe in my arms.” Another kiss, “Just how you wanted, love.”

The Doctor moaned faintly. Clara rubbed his chest to soothe him. He moaned louder, his lower teeth bared in a stiff grimace. It suddenly occurred to her that she was distracting him. He never liked being fondled or kissed at the peak of lovemaking. Perhaps the same applied to dying, too.

“I’m sorry.” She immediately halted the kissing and caressing. “Do you want me to get off the bed for a minute and let you settle down?”

His face contorted like he wanted to cry. The muscles in his throat tensed and his lips parted. From them, five faint words that took all his strength to say.

“Don’t run. Stay with me.” 

Clara fought back a rush of tears. The way he said it sounded exactly how he said it a thousand years ago. 

_“Don't run. Stay with me.”_

_"Nah. You stay here. In the end, everybody does this alone.”_

_"Clara...”_

_“This is as brave as I know how to be. I know it's going to hurt you, but, please, be a little proud of me.”_

Panic flitted across his expression. He kept mouthing 'stay with me’ over and over through dry, blue lips.

“Okay, Doctor. Shhh, it’s fine. I’ll stay on the bed.” Clara helped him roll onto his left side and draped his right arm over her waist. The left found its way underneath her side. Both his hands gripped the back of her sweater.

The Doctor fussed as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, surrounded his legs with hers and pressed him tight against her chest. He didn’t settle after she applied the pressure stimulation that usually calmed him.

And it hit her. 

“Doctor,” Clara lifted her eyebrows, “Wednesday kiss?”

The Doctor smiled faintly. An answer clearer than words. 

Clara touched her forehead to his once, nuzzled their noses together twice and finally leaned in to kiss him. He puckered up for it. They exchanged three long, slow, tender pecks. 

His restlessness abated like magic, and a sense of peace challenged the dread tightening Clara’s chest. This wasn’t goodbye; it was ‘see you next week.’

_“Smile for me. Go on, Clara Oswald, one last time.”_

_"How could I smile?”_

_"It's okay. Don't you worry. I'll remember it.”_

Clara smiled for him even though his eyes were closed. The Doctor seemed to sense it anyway. He relaxed his grip on her sweater and began breathing deeply from his diaphragm. The secretions in his throat rattled like a percolating coffee maker, a horrible, nightmarish sound that somehow didn’t cause him pain.

She resisted the urge to comfort him with words or caresses. It was impossible to tell if he’d lost consciousness or entered a state of extreme inward focus-- she didn’t want to disturb him on the off chance he remained awake. 

His breathing efforts grew shallower and shifted towards the top of his chest. The gurgling noises quieted to faint crackles. His jaw flexed open every time he inhaled. It looked as if he examined each breath while he took it and decided that wasn’t the last one before letting it go. The gaps between gasps stretched longer and longer.

Then the Doctor's neck muscles strained like he tried to breathe and couldn’t. His eyes sprang open to zero in on Clara’s. An unconscious death spasm? No...he was wide awake. Wide awake and excited. His face assumed the _‘Aha!-I-have-it-all-figured-out-now’_  look he got every time he reached an epiphany. 

“You found it.” Clara blinked away tears. She moved his right hand off her back and held his palm against her cheek. His cold fingers were blue like his lips. 

He brushed a teardrop off her eyelashes. His eyes searched hers. They shone like eclipses in the diamond ring phase just before the diaphanous solar corona appeared. All his love for her lay naked in his gaze. Never did his blue eyes look more beautiful than in that moment.

“What are you waiting for, Doctor? Permission? No, I’m not going to give you permission, I’m going to give you an order.” Now her lips started to quiver. She willed herself not to cry yet. "Run, you clever boy, and remember your promise.”

The Doctor glanced around before refocusing on her. He did the  _‘hey-Clara-watch-this’_  eyebrow raise and drew a silent inhale. 

A perfect last breath. No, not just _a_  perfect last breath-- _the most perfect_ last breath in history. Then he let it go. Not as a rasp or a sigh, but a whisper.

“Clara...” He smiled at her while his lungs emptied. 

Clara pressed his hand tighter against her cheek, her eyes riveted on his. The totality of his soul bared itself to her in the black universe of his pupils and faded like breath on a mirror when his facial muscles went slack. His eyes didn’t move off hers or close, they simply ceased to see.

Silence fell. A silence louder than the shockwaves of a timeless man stepping off the mortal coil.

Clara stared, stunned. The Doctor lay there, mouth agape and eyes staring through her. His features looked like discarded clothes that held the shape of whoever wore them last.

Death didn’t _happen_ to him. He _achieved_ it. 

“You did this on purpose, didn’t you?” Clara gripped his nightshirt, her voice shaking, “You bloody arse...y-you were showing off! You can’t even die without showing off.” 

She pictured the Doctor vigorously shaking hands with the Grim Reaper while babbling about how excited he was to finally meet Death in person. Then he’d say something silly like ‘You’re a lot less scary than I expected,’ and off he would go to explore the great beyond. 

It should have sent her into fits of giggles. Her emotions went the opposite way. The tears she told herself not to cry broke free. She tucked the Doctor’s face against her neck and sobbed into his shoulder. Right then it didn’t matter that she would finish her own death soon. Seeing him die tore a part of her open that she didn’t know could be torn.

_“I've got to go sometime.”_

_“Not with me! Die with whoever comes after me. You do not leave me.”_

_“Listen to me. We all have to face death eventually, be it ours or someone else's.”_

_“I'm not ready yet. I don't want to think about that, not yet.”_

_"I can't change what's already happened. There are rules.”_

_"So break them. And anyway, you owe me. You've made yourself essential to me. You've given me something else to, to be. And you can't do that and then die. It's not fair.”_

_"Clara...”_

_"No. Doctor, I don't care about your rules or your bloody survivor's guilt. If you love me in any way, you'll come back.”_

Several minutes passed before she collected herself enough to guide his eyelids and mouth shut. His eyes wouldn’t stay closed. She gave up, repositioned him on his back with his hands at his sides and tucked him in.

Whoever said the dead looked asleep was a liar. A sleeping person wasn’t ashen with purple lips. Sleeping people breathed.

Grinding noises obliterated the quiet. Startled, Clara looked towards the sound. The Doctor’s TARDIS dematerialized, signaling once and for all that he was gone. 

.o

Me came as soon as Clara called to tell her the Doctor passed away.

They dressed him smartly in his most “Doctor-y” outfit of black trousers, a crisp white shirt, a black waistcoat and his maroon velvet coat. Clara found the clothes in the same chest as his bedding. Almost like he left them there on purpose because he knew she would find them. 

His attire looked two sizes too big on his gaunt body. Creative tucking and adjusting hid it for the most part. Clara spent several minutes combing his curly white hair into soft waves.

Visions of a young man in a bow tie flitted across her mind.

_“It all just disappears, doesn't it? Everything you are, gone in a moment, like breath on a mirror. Any moment now, he's a-coming.”_

_"Who's coming?”_

_"The Doctor.”_

_"But you, you are the Doctor.”_

_"Yep, and I always will be.”_

“Are you okay?” Me asked once they had the Doctor’s body lying in a dignified state of repose.

Clara eased a box of chalk into the Doctor’s inner breast pocket and tied the No Gloom ‘Shroom to his left wrist using the twine. She propped his guitar up against the bed. As an afterthought, she put his sunglasses on him to cover his eyes since they wouldn’t stay shut.

“I’m fine.” No, she wasn’t. Reality was too heavy. “Got the fuel?”

Me held up the canisters. Clara couldn’t remember or pronounce the name of the chemical in them, but it was a hundred times more flammable than gasoline fumes. It burned so hot it could melt practically any metal and reduce organic matter to ash. 

Me sprayed the sides of the bed, the walls, the floors and the supporting beams. The fluid smelled odd, like cinnamon mixed into vinegar. 

Clara kissed the Doctor’s forehead one last time and laid a fuel-soaked sheet over him as a shroud.

“Okay. Let’s go. He said this stuff burns fast and hot.”

Me used the Doctor’s sonic screwdriver to ignite the doorway. Smoke began pouring through the gaps in the wooden walls. Flames licked away the fabric roof. The glow of white-hot fire shone eerily in the late afternoon shadows.

Clara imagined flames covering the sheet on the Doctor’s body. At the same time, she pictured his TARDIS glowing and disintegrating in the time vortex.

There was a boom as the barn door blew off. The smoldering frame collapsed with a loud crunch. Dark flame-tinged smoke spiraled like a living thing. Flames as white as diamonds danced in defiance of the setting sun.

Me didn’t muddle the silence with useless platitudes. She stood next to Clara in the deepening sunset, watching the smoldering wood shine.

Clara welcomed the hand Me placed on her shoulder. The Doctor’s death had been almost funny, but the weight of his absence afterward opened a void in her heart and nothing could fill it.

She suddenly marched into the diner with Me close behind. They did a quick jump nine hours into the future and emerged at sunrise to see the final result. The smoking ruin wasn’t recognizable as a barn anymore.

“It’s gone,” said Me.

“I want to make sure _he’s_  gone.” Clara said back while she pushed aside an ashen board.

All that remained of the Doctor was a burnt, blackened skull. Clara stared into two empty eye sockets that once held beautiful blue eyes. Then she dropped a board on the skull and watched it crumble. Everything the Doctor was and did from that moment on would be past tense.

“Good night, love,” she whispered, “You’re safe now.”

“Clara, don’t lie to me. Are you okay?” Me’s quiet voice didn’t disturb the silence.

“Yeah,” Clara climbed out of the rubble. Once they were inside the diner again, she turned and hugged the ageless woman who looked younger than her. “It’s time to finish this.”

“Clara,” Me wasn’t as hesitant to hug back as the Doctor was. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve run long enough. The Doctor was right. Immortality is watching everybody else die. No offense-- I can’t live with that. I’ve done everything I wanted to do. The universe is going to keep ripping itself apart until I finish my timeline.”

She felt Me’s arms squeeze her. The girl shook enough to make her leather jacket creak. Me broke the hug and stepped back. As usual, her lovely countenance revealed little of her true feelings. She knew how to make her eyes unreadable, something the Doctor never mastered.

“Take care of the universe for me?” Clara asked hopefully.

Now Me turned away, one hand rising delicately to her own face. “Yeah.” Then she faced Clara again, smiling with tears welling in her eyes. “We had fun, didn’t we?”

“Definitely! Now, Me, make sure you watch that video of the New Year’s party anytime you feel down. You’re not allowed to forget licking that hairy bloke’s entire neck. Teacher’s orders.”

“Tch!” Me wrinkled her nose, her dark eyes sparkling, “I was drunk and stupid. Never could hold my liquor. Besides, you put me up to it. I’ll miss having you do that.” She winked, “Don’t forget that I have equally incriminating evidence against you. Remember the tree hugging thing?”

“You wouldn’t dare.” Clara laughed and opened the door concealing the console room.

“Clara,” Me stood across from her, just tall enough to peer over the central time rotor, “Was his death beautiful?”

The ache reappeared in Clara’s throat. She dropped her gaze to the console she could operate blindfolded if she wanted to. A few taps on the keyboard laid in the Epsilon coordinates. They were making a century leap backwards.

"Yes, it was.” Clara bit her bottom lip, “I had him in my arms. He seemed excited when he took that last breath."

She didn’t mention what she saw in the Doctor’s eyes as he slipped away. Like the words they exchanged in the Cloisters, that moment belonged to them and nobody else.

“I’m glad.” Me exhaled heavily. 

“One more thing before we go.” Clara fished in her pocket for the data chip the Doctor gave her. She handed it to Me. “This is a copy of his TARDIS library. He wanted you to have it. That way a piece of his TARDIS will always be around. You know how he was about books.”

Me’s throat worked in a swallow as he set the chip down on the console. “I’ve probably read everything in it throughout my life.”

“But how many of those books do you _remember?_ ” asked Clara.

Curiosity flickered in Me’s dark eyes. “I suppose a finite human memory means I’ll read a few of these for the first time again.”

“See?” Clara’s lips quirked in a half-smile, “I’m stalling. Come on, let’s go.”

Me pulled the locking mechanism and the dimensional stabilizers ground away. Clara closed her eyes to cherish her last time jump in a TARDIS.

 _Goodbye, old girl_...

.o

The browns, golds and purples of the trap street wavered against the white wall. Clara licked her lips nervously and looked over at the dark-skinned General.

“This is what will happen,” the General shifted her weight, “Time will back up a few seconds and resume when I close the door. You may feel a bit dizzy, but you will be able to prepare properly for your fate.”

Clara nodded curtly. A thousand years of gallivanting around the universe only cooled her hatred of the Time Lords a few half-degrees. She longed to spit in their faces that the Doctor was gone far beyond their ability to hurt him any more, but she held herself in check.

She shot Me a fond look before turning to the General.

“Can I have a minute when I go through?”

“Of course.”

Clara squared her shoulders and emerged into her proper time again. A quick backward glance let her see Me standing next to the General. They exchanged sad smiles.

Then Clara about-faced and approached the Doctor. The one-thousand-years-younger Doctor whose hair wasn’t all white yet. His glistening eyes were wide with mortal dread. She picked his right hand up and kissed it tenderly even though he wouldn’t feel it. His arm sprang back to its original position like a tree branch when she released it. 

“I really hope there’s more after this, if only to hear you go on about what it’s like. One thing’s for sure...” Now she approached the frozen raven and flicked its beak, “...I’m not afraid of _you_ anymore.”

Me let out an unladylike snort. Clara grinned at her to cover her own trepidation. Dying didn’t scare her, but the idea that it might hurt did.

She steeled herself and nodded towards the luminous doorway that didn’t belong. The General’s arm moved. Strange suction sensations pulled at her heels like ocean surf washing over her feet. Time backed up several seconds. People walked or ran backwards. The raven reversed all the way to its perch on a blue awning. 

“Let me be brave,” Clara murmured as the white light vanished.

.o

.o

Her brown eyes focus straight ahead, reflecting the raven in flight. She stares it down. Nothing else in her life will require as much bravery as this.

Every story has a finite number of chapters, and this is the final page of hers. 

Clara Oswald doesn’t know what will happen after the next page turn, yet she opens her arms and _trusts_.

Something enters the raven, causing it to flash white when it slams into her. She wobbles on her feet, determined to stay standing until the end. Her coronary arteries spasm shut. Burning chest pains wrench an involuntary scream from her throat. She is having a heart attack while two forces are at painful war inside her.

All the love she experienced in her life replaces the physical pain. It’s warm, familiar.

Her scream fades. The Doctor is here. She is safe.

Clara’s oxygen-starved heart starts to fibrillate. She feels like she stood up too fast, only it tingles a bit worse. Her numb skin practically vibrates on her muscles. Everything looks unreal. 

Human brains can remain conscious for eight seconds without a pulse. She makes hers count. Her body doesn’t want to breathe, but she takes control and gasps for her last breath. It’s an act of sheer defiance. 

Darkness blankets her vision like the shadow of a solar eclipse. The entirety of the universe glows before her. Time releases her from its grasp. She watches it expand into eternity. Galaxies and blackness twirl in its eddies. 

This is what she saw in the Doctor’s eyes as he died, and now she sees it with her own. 

It is _beautiful_.

She has a sudden urge to smile. Her face doesn’t respond anymore; her eight seconds are up.  

The Quantum Shade drags her forward like a magnet. She senses the Doctor’s life force tugging her back. The Quantum Shade can’t take both of them, so it exits her mouth and blows away like harmless smoke. 

Clara Oswald gazes into forever and exhales. Her knees give way. There is a sickening crack as her her body strikes the cobblestones like a cast-off coat. She doesn’t feel the impact because she isn’t bound to that prison of flesh and bone anymore.

Then everything goes dark. Existence ceases as she knows it. 

Fingers snap. 

“Gotcha!” 

Clara is standing inside the TARDIS doors. And there is the Doctor at the top of the stairs, looking as if he just stepped off the trap street. A lump wells in her throat when he grins and waggles his eyebrows up and down.

“Yes, Clara, you’re dead. So am I. This is a mental construct. It’ll fade away when you don’t need it anymore.” 

“Really? Why would I need it?”

“Being a non-corporeal being doesn’t come easy when you’re used to being corporeal. I’ve had a lot of time to get acquainted with it.”

The Doctor descends the stairs and stops in front of her. She doesn’t know what to say because this is all so new. That’s okay. The Doctor has plenty to say.

“Dying...what a strange feeling. I popped out of my own skull and looked down to see myself looking at you. Then I wafted up this big tunnel of light where I could see the entire universe from start to finish. It was so-- oof! Clara!”

Clara embraces him because words are too small for this moment. The Doctor swoops in to kiss her without breaking the hug. She doesn’t notice the TARDIS fading away because he is all that matters.

Light shines down from above. A bright point far away. She stares up at it when their kiss finally breaks.

“So that’s it then? The light people go into when they die?” asks Clara. “It’s a long way off.”

“No, Clara, it’s very, very _small_. You’re looking at a universe yet to be born,” says the Doctor. He gestures wildly, spreading his hands, “All it needs is a little energy and...boom! It’ll start expanding!”

She watches him flail about with affection in her eyes. Such a silly old man whose long story is finally ending. He points at her as soon as the thought crosses her mind. His eyes are huge. 

“No. I hate endings.”

Clara peers him curiously, if only to egg him on into more talking and flailing. It works. There he goes, gesticulating and speaking a light year a second.

“Have you ever been a universe, Clara? I did it before I popped back here for you. Twenty billion years, and not a single one wasted. I was planets, stars, oceans, _myself_. I learned so much. So much! But it wasn’t the same without you.” 

The Doctor stuffs his hands into his pockets and spins completely around on his heels, which causes his coat to flutter. It looks like something out of a Michael Jackson music video. Excitement gleams in his vivid blue eyes when he gazes at Clara.

“All of our everything goes into everything else. We’re energy! Energy cannot be created or destroyed, it can only transform. And look! All of time and space yet to be is right here! It’ll be a universe made entirely of us! Our thoughts, our dreams, our love.” 

His hands rise again, framing Clara’s face without touching it. “Ohh...Clara, Clara, Clara, we almost destroyed the last universe we shared. Why not have a go at creating one?”

The utter glee on his face as he infodumps in techno-ese is nearly too much for her. He has the answers he wants and already he is asking more questions. It means so much to see him this vibrant again. 

This is the Doctor Clara knows and loves.

He sobers, his expression soft. “We can be born again if we want to-- just like we were before. Imagine discovering each other again. And again, and again...making different choices and ending up here when it’s all done.”

Clara tilts her head, awed by the notion. 

“How will we find each other, Doctor?”

The Doctor’s eyes glint with amusement when he faces her. “Clara Oswald, when _can’t_ I find you?”

He offers her his hand. She accepts it and smiles because his elation is contagious. 

“The most amazing part of this whole situation...everything that happened before, everything you think you know was only the prologue.” He points to the brightness, “ _This_ is when the real story starts.”

“Then let’s make ours a good one.” Clara squeezes his hand. “One question. How will we tell it?”

The Doctor eases her into a waltz. It’s how he shows her he’s happy. “Every love story ever written will be our story, Clara.” 

He twirls and dips her. 

“Stories are where memories go when they’re forgotten. The writers won’t know they’re writing about us because they can’t remember the beginning of time.” 

Another twirl and dip. 

“Love stories are all they’ll have.”

Clara laughs, socking his shoulder while they dance. “Does that mean someone’s writing about us right now?”

“Hmm. I always wanted to be in a piece of fanfiction.” The Doctor twirls her again and shouts into the void, “Is this on the internet yet? Hello, reader!” 

And Clara steps on his foot to draw his attention back to their dance. She bites her lip to conceal her amusement at his utter ridiculousness. "Do you act this absurd when you’re alone?”

“I’m nothing without an audience, Clara.” He winks and dances her in tighter, faster circles. “We best do it spinning. Otherwise nothing will and that's boring. Are you ready?”

She crinkles her nose when she giggles. “Always, Doctor.”

“One more thing before we go in.”

“Yeah?”

The Doctor draws Clara closer and kisses her deeply. She presses into it, letting him change the tempo of their dance. Their waltz steps are smaller than subatomic particles that carry them in orbit around the luminous white sphere. Faster and faster they go, their forms becoming a colorful ring of energy as they spiral together into the unknown. 

Expansion happens immediately. From a point too small to see to grapefruit sized in mere nanoseconds. Everything yet to be exists in a growing cosmic soup of hot particles set in motion by Clara and the Doctor. 

Someday, the spin from their waltz will bind the first atoms. 

Someday, the light in his eyes will be galaxies.

Someday, the sound of her laughter will build the cosmic web.

Someday, a little girl will sit on a swing next to a sad man wearing a bow tie.

This is the love story of Clara Oswald and the Doctor, and this is how it begins. 

.o 

_“If the years take away_  
_every memory that I have,_  
_I would still know the way_  
_that would lead me back to your side._  
_The north star may die,_  
_but the light that I see in your eyes_  
_will burn there always,_  
_lit by the love we have_  
_shared before time.”_

\--Coco Lee, _[A Love Before Time](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=urZVOFH04II)_  


End file.
